At Least It Can't Get Any Worse
by Swashbucklist
Summary: A lazy hero, a Harpo Marx-incarnate madman, a human-pokemon hybrid, and a cigar-chomping eccentric find themselves in a position to defeat an evil organization and its power-hungry leader ... Obviously, this is not an ideal situation.
1. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Disclaimer: Pokemon and all related characters and elements is copyright to somebody else. We own Pearl Town and a few of our own characters.

Swashbucklist's Intro: This story of ours came out of Neoflame's request to write a Pokemon fanfic, and also out of my aspiration to co-author a story (even if that second author has to be my brother, whom I see every FRACK-ing day). One character was inspired by Harpo Marx, the greatest pantomiming comedian who ever lived. The other character is apparently Neoflame's own snarky, lazy, neo-heroic alter-ego, possibly inspired a little by Captain Jack Sparrow and the standard strain of lead heroes from the anime and webcomics he entertains himself with. That, or he may just be a Gary-Stu. Which means I've got work to do. There are also a few villains you may recognize if you watch a lot of movies.

That is all.

Neoflame's Intro: Mmmmmm ... cookies. And PIE! Can't forget the pie.

* * *

"**At Least It Can't Get Any Worse"**

**Chapter 1: Something Wicked This Way Comes

* * *

**

It was nighttime. The Pokemon League Elite Four Headquarters glimmered slightly, reflected in the lenses of a pair of infrared binoculars. These binoculars were held in the hands of a man in a black uniform with a red R emblazoned on the front. Laying on his stomach, hidden in shadow underneath a wave of ferns on the edge of a ridge, he looked down at the building. A silent team of nearly invisible shadows was moving stealthily toward the building's entrance far below.

"Squad 'A', move in," he whispered into his walkie-talkie.

The shadows made their way down the slope and proceeded toward the building's rear entrance. They slid like a black river of quicksilver, making sure every step they took was completely soundless with ninja-like swiftness.

The man on the ridge grinned with satisfaction. The grin vanished as one of the shadows tripped and went rolling and tumbling down the slope, knocking over some if his teammates. He winced, hearing scuffing and thudding sounds from his earpiece accompanied by curses. He lowered the binoculars to the dirt and shook his head sourly.

Less than a minute later, he received a confirmation that the security sensors were off. A smug grin spread across his icy features once more. "That's more like it." As the shadows proceeded inside, he pulled a mask from his pack and tugged it on.

* * *

Bud Reynolds, an overweight, bespectacled janitor was finishing off his night duty. He pushed his mop back an forth, making his way backward down the darkened hallway that led to the Pokemon League HQ's central ventilation room. The end of the hallway from which he'd been backing away with his mop had long since dissolved into shadows. Bud heard an ominous click. He paused, staring into the hallway's thick veil of darkness, then went back to mopping. But a pattering of rapid footsteps drew his attention again. Someone was coming.

Seconds later, three shadowy figures charged into view. They raced up to him, silent and menacing. Their boots made almost no sound, even on his squeaky, freshly-dampened floor.

The mop handle slid from Bud's slackened fingers and seemed to fall in slow motion.

The two rear-flanking shadows raised their silenced weapons.

The mop clattered to the floor as Bud took a step back.

Drawing closer, the lead shadow raised his M-16.

Bud raised his hands...

... and in one, he held a ring full of keys. "Right on time," he said to one of the Special Ops Rockets.

One of them snatched the keys and proceeded with his partner to the ventilation room. Bud turned his back so that the remaining Rocket could knock him unconscious. He'd been told that this would make it appear as though he'd put up a struggle, and would free him of suspicion. He had also been told that after quitting the workforce tomorrow he would find two million dollars in his bank account. But with his back turned, he didn't see the Special Ops Rocket shoulder his M-16, draw a handgun from his holster, and fix a silencer onto its barrel.

The two Special Ops Rockets unlocked the ventilation room and stepped inside, ignoring the sound of the pistol shot behind them. They unhitched two straps of pokeballs from their belts that contained the pokemon needed for this operation. Keeping their pokeball straps and their guns at the ready, they set to work unfastening the vent grates.

While the two Rocket operatives worked, the Pokemon League HQ's most unknown and trustworthy security measure blinked its eyes. It stood directly behind the Rockets, completely invisible, with a devilish grin on its face. The Gengar belonged to Agatha, naturally. It spent most nights slinking through the building's shadows, playing good-natured tricks on janitors like Bud. But not tonight, obviously.

Smoothly and silently, it faded into the wall and took off, shooting like and invisible cannonball through the next few rooms and sending a psychic warning into the minds of the sleeping Pokemon League Champions. All four were alerted simultaneously. They jumped from their beds and flew about their sleeping quarters, scooping up jackets, capes, and pokeballs, preparing for whatever suicidal interlopers were stupid enough to break in to the headquarters. _Their_ headquarters, for goodness sake.

Agatha and Lance stepped swiftly out of their rooms and into the lushly carpeted bedroom lobby, fastening cloak and cape. Bruno leaned out of his door, naturally bare-chested. Lorelei's door didn't open. Instead, she leaned out from behind Bruno. "What's going on?" she asked, far too alert for someone who had just woken up. Apparently, neither she nor the rock trainer had been sleeping.

"It's Gengar," said Agatha. "He's signaled me that there are intruders in the main hall and in the air-circulation room."

Sheathing his sword, Lance swooped his black cape over his shoulders with a flourish. "Well, we'd better go see what they want. It'd be awfully rude of us to keep... them ..." His banter trailed off and died as he saw Bruno and Lorelei, both half dressed and standing in the same doorway.

Agatha muttered, "Get dressed you two," and headed off.

* * *

Back in the ventilation room, the three Rockets had released their pokemon: a virtual army of parasect. The Rockets removed the now-unfastened covers to the vents, put on their gas masks, and the pokemon did the rest. A continuous stream of parasect darted into the metal tunnels. Their hundreds of insect feet made a thunderous racket as they swarmed throughout the entire complex, unleashing sleeping and paralyzing attacks that filled the shafts and poured into every room and hallway of the building.

The leader of the Special Ops Rockets tapped his earpiece and signaled for the rest of his team to move in.

Lance, and the now fully clothed Lorelei and Bruno, made their way toward the nearest security checkpoint. Before they reached it, however, Agatha stepped from the shadows to block their path. "We need to get out of here, now," she said urgently.

"Why? Just who's out there that we can't handle?" said Bruno.

"They're using the ventilation system to spread paralysis and sleep attacks," said Agatha. "Let's move before ... !" Her sentence was cut short as a cloud of orange dust abruptly exploded through the ceiling vents directly over her head, causing her to jump back. She saw Lorelei staring at something further down the corridor, and turned to see more of the same orange powder spilling in. The elderly Ghost trainer was instantly lost in the dense wave of powders and gasses.

Lance dove forward, vanishing into the cloud, and immediately reappeared with the short old woman's limp form under one arm. "Move it!" he shouted.

They took off in the opposite direction, rounding a corner, only to see the path ahead of them already flooded with the orange-yellow dust. "This can't end well," said Bruno.

They drew out several pokeballs, Lance grasping the one containing his dragonite, and tossed them. But before the pokeballs had left their hands, three claw-shaped metal objects flew out of the powder-filled darkness and clamped down on the devices, sealing them shut.

Before their useless pokeballs even hit the floor, the toxic dust enveloped all three standing trainers. It filled their lungs despite efforts to hold their breaths. Slowly, as each trainer's resistance was broken one at a time, the Elite Four Champions collapsed in the carpeted hallway.

A few moments passed. Through the slowly fading powders, three groups of Rockets emerged wearing black stealth suits, with gas-masks covering their faces. Half of them had machine-guns raised. Two in the back were arguing, one of them covered in dirt and scuffs from tumbling down the slope outside. Once it was confirmed that all four Pokemon Masters were down, the Rockets lowered and secured their weapons. They all began pulling off their gas masks, except the one who'd lost the argument in back and was now tying his shoelace.

The leader, wearing a pair of field binoculars around his neck, stepped forward and peered down at the defeated heap of Pokemon Masters. He nudged one with his toe. Then he peeled off his mask and a deeply satisfied grin creased his hard face. His cackling laughter echoed throughout the building.


	2. Spacial Delivery

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokemon, the lyrics to "Five-O-Clock Morning", or the personalities of several featured characters.

* * *

"**At Least It Can't Get Any Worse"**

**Chapter Two: Spacial Delivery

* * *

**

It was a hot, dry, thirst-inspiring morning ... and in a desert of all places. The sun was steadily rising over Pearl Town, whose communal attitude was generally as dry and heated as the baked sand of its outskirts. The town sat at the edge of the Johto Desert, west of the Johto region itself. Its jumbled insides consisted of shabby buildings, dusty streets, and crowds of carts and shops where its poorer denizens struggled to make their living.

Criminal operations were the lifeblood of Pearl Town. Having an economy supported by illegal activities, the richer populace lived in larger houses at the southeastern edge of the town where there was more shade, plumbing, and luxury. They profited from smuggling, counterfeiting, gambling, prostitution, and drug-running, and there wasn't a single wealthy citizen in there whose hands were totally clean. The poorer, cheaper half of the populace had nothing to gain by rebelling against the criminal operations that kept their economy afloat, and certainly had not the will ...

... Save for two individuals. Their address was stamped on a large crate in the back of a delivery truck that was smoothly plugging its way across the desert.

Its tires kicked up a rising plume of dust that marked its journey toward the town. The driver, Laurence, was a fat man with a small mustache and black hair that lay flat against his head. He was dressed in a postal service uniform. From the other seat, Laurence's mousey, sleepy-looking partner Harvey reached over to turn up the volume of a song from one of his favorite sitcoms. This didn't do much to improve Laurence's mood.

_"Up every morning just to keep a job. I gotta fight my way through the hustling mob,_

"_Sounds of the city pounding in my brain, while another day goes down the drain,_

"_Yeah, yeah, yeah..."_

"Make sure you turn that off before we arrive at the address," said Laurence, waving a finger at Harvey with mock-disapproval. Ironically, as these two deliverymen were taking a package to the only two citizens of Pearl Town who looked into its criminal activities, they themselves had been hired to carry one out right now.

The package was an excuse to visit the town. The truck was for another use.

* * *

In the cheapest apartment of the second-cheapest section of Pearl Town, two people were sound asleep, their bed sheets pulled up like body bags. Sunlight was streaming in dusty shafts through the steel bars fixed into their third-story apartment windows. They were in that state of sleep where they knew they were going to have to wake up soon to try to believe that they didn't have to get out of bed before getting out of bed, and didn't want to believe it, but were going to have to start believing it soon because they would have to soon be knowing that they had to get up. Or else believing they didn't want to. More simply put, it was "just five more minutes" time.

Their radio alarm clock sprang to life with unwelcome enthusiasm, bursting with a morning song selection from the radio station all away from the other end of the desert:

_"Cuz it's a five o'clock world when the whistle blows. No one owns a piece of my time,_

"_And there's a long-haired girl who waits, I know, to ease my troubled mind ..."_

The human form that was curled under the sheets of the bed nearest to the window rolled over and groaned at the wake-up music. "Aw, jeez ... Turn that crap off, would you?"

Before the singer had made it halfway through the next verse, the form in the second bed obligingly swung his arm out from beneath his sheets. In his hand he wielded a sawed-off shotgun, and he was aiming it directly at the noisy appliance. When it refused to back down from this threat, he squeezed the trigger. A thundering bang shot through the apartment, and the haplessly ignorant radio exploded into pieces that went showering everywhere.

"Thanks," the first bed sighed as the second bed stuffed the gun back under his pillow and gave a one-handed thumbs-up gesture.

Nigel knew it would be time to get up soon. And, thanks to his step-brother's outrageous way of fixing things, time to buy a new clock. But for now, he lay motionless, eager to take his time in waking up as slowly as possible.

Then another noise buzzed from somewhere in the apartment. In sudden alertness, Nigel's step-brother scrambled underneath his sheets like a tunneling critter and spilled onto the floor from the foot of his bed. A nightcap was pulled over his well-shaven cranium, which was hairless enough to intrigue Lex Luther, but for the presence of eyebrows. He reached into his left bunny slipper for a pair of thin-rimmed glasses in order to see the face of the old-fashioned windup alarm clock that he had been holding all night like a teddy bear. An appropriately shocked reaction at the lateness of the morning lit his face up, and he flew into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Tearing off his pajamas, Queequeg tackled the stove in a breakfast-making frenzy. Underneath his pajamas he was already dressed for the day in corduroy pants, a button-down shirt, and a rumpled trench coat that was networked with patches.

Over the sounds of reckless culinary work in the next room, Nigel heard the engine of a large vehicle pulling up next to the Zanzibar Hotel somewhere beneath their window. He winced as the song they'd just punished their radio for came blasting from the delivery truck's radio:

_"In my five o'clock world she waits for me. Nothing else matters at all._

"_Cuz every time my baby smiles at me ..."_

Nigel stopped writhing lazily around under his sheets in his moving-around-to-wake-limbs-up stage, and groaned. "How friggin long is that SONG?"

Queequeg, clutching a grilled-cheese sandwich in his mouth, shrugged and dashed over to hoist himself up onto the window sill. He pushed away the "protective" steel bars, which were just built into a frame on hinges that didn't even have a lock. He spat the grilled cheese out to utter a loud, informative whistle through his fingers.

Nigel pushed himself up to begin his becoming-conscious-of-surroundings stage, while asking, "Is it a delivery truck?" Queequeg nodded. "Who's it for?"

Queequeg pulled a pair of binoculars from his coat and took a closer look. Through them, he spied the address on the crate as it was awkwardly unloaded. He jumped back down from the sill and pointed between his sleepy brother and his own face, which now had a black ring around one eye from one of the binocular's eye-piece.

"It's for us?" Nigel was answered with a nod. "Huh. Well, go down and sign for it, I guess."

Queequeg nodded again. He trampled across both beds, messing up the sheets, and raced from the room.

Nigel sat there for another few seconds before deciding to get to work. He had a job, after all, and he couldn't do it in his sleep. What he really needed was a job that he _could_ do in his sleep. Wouldn't that be relaxing!

The drowsy haze that would last until two o'clock made his movements lethargic and uncoordinated as he got dressed and headed for his apartment door. Opening it, he glanced one way down the hall, then the other. Queequeg was taking his time. Maybe the deliveryman was vexed at Queequeg signing his name by drawing a big "X" on the paper because he didn't know how to write. Oh well. Nigel deftly reached around the door, took hold of the large "Do not disturb" sign that hung on the front, and flipped it around.

Then he retreated back into the room, closing his door on "Nigel and Queequeg. Jacks-of-all-Trades, Freelancers, and Oddjobbers." He reclined on the couch, set the phone next to his ear, and fell asleep again.

By the time his step-brother's feet were clomping back up the stairs, Nigel was back to snoring. The door banged open, and Queequeg entered awkwardly with a box the size of a garbage bin on his back. He whistled a couple of times to wake Nigel, but soon gave up and lurched over toward the short stool to set down the oversized "package". He crushed the fragile stool, but didn't seem to notice.

Pulling up his left pant leg to glance at his watch, he whistled at the time. He needed to get to work!

Out the window he went, snatching a red fez from the window sill as he leapt over it. He fell one story, bounced off the awning above the hotel entrance, and landed in front of a surprised woman. He paused long enough to tip his hat to her before running off.

Queequeg was headed for his second job of the day, but was taking care of his first job on the way there. Dashing across the top of a large penthouse building, he leaned into the broad sweeps he was making with a push broom. It could get windy out here in a featureless desert, and people needed their roofs free of sand (or so he thought). The debris cascaded over the edges of the roofs he ran across. Passersby who were familiar with this morning activity stepped under awnings or pulled out umbrellas to shield themselves. They hadn't even needed umbrellas before the neighborhood maniac had found this job, and frankly, it pissed some of them off.

Next, he reached inside his coat and hauled out a long-handled chimneysweep. The factory next door had a roof that was packed with chimneys. Tossing away the broom (which thudded into the occupied street four stories below and stuck there like a javelin, bristles up) he leapt onto roof of the factory. It didn't even occur to him how far he would plummet if he fell short of the twelve-foot jump.

* * *

Harvey slammed on the brakes, causing Laurence to lurch forward, thock his head on the windshield, and fall back into his seat. Grumbling and cursing, the fat man glared at Harvey, who was wary of punishment but too mentally lethargic to be seriously concerned about it. Laurence never smacked him hard, anyway.

Shaking his clutched fists, Laurence steamed, "Why did you stop all of a sudden!"

"Uh, the ..." Harvey pointed ahead of them, unsure of how to explain his dilemma. "There's a broom in the road."

Laurence rolled his eyes and sighed exaggeratedly. "No, my little friend, the appropriate phrase is, 'there's a fork in the road.' Not 'broom.'"

"But there is. See, look." He pointed at the push broom sticking up out of the middle of the street. Laurence glanced at it reproachfully, then did a double-take and glared at the broom in bewilderment.

Oh, it's ... someone's idea of a joke!" he said, waving his hands distractedly. "Just run over it."

Harvey did so, snapping the broom handle in two as he plowed into it with the truck's bumper, and proceeded deeper into Pearl Town.

* * *

At the sound of his favorite broom snapping, Queequeg popped out of the smokestack that he was cleaning from the inside and scrambled over to the edge of the roof, producing a storm of black smoke and soot. He stared down into the street, and was shocked to see that someone had actually snapped his favorite broom clean in two. It was amazing, the callousness of some people. He would buy a new one the very next day, like he did almost every day of the week, but still!

The sound of a truck engine drew his attention. He darted to the other corner of the building and spotted the vehicle. It was the mail truck that had dropped off their package from earlier.

Perhaps, he thought, there was an opportunity to be had here.

Tossing his chimneysweep over the edge like he had his broom (only this time it exploded with a shower of black soot upon landing, which got all over somebody's cabbage cart), he took a running start, leaped for the next building over, and proceeded to follow the mail truck while someone in the street below bellowed angrily over his ruined cabbages.


	3. A Match of Wits and Halfwits

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokemon or the personalities and appearances of several featured characters.

* * *

"**At Least It Can't Get Any Worse"**

**Chapter Three: A Match of Wits and Halfwits

* * *

**

The phone had only rung once, and it was just to let Nigel know that their rent was overdue again.

He noticed the giant wooden crate sitting in the middle of the apartment. Queequeg hadn't opened it. Sitting up, he glanced at the door, wishing for the millionth time there would be a sexy female client standing there.

He glanced back at the crate, taking up one fifth of the room's space.

Then he looked back at the door.

Then back at the crate.

Then the door.

... The crate was bigger than the door.

"Oi ..." He rubbed his temples, feeling another headache coming on. How Queequeg had done it wasn't even worth trying to figure out.

* * *

The unloaded delivery truck plodded through one of Pearl Town's many narrow, maze-like back alleys. Laurence checked the numbers on the scraggy buildings as he passed them. Once he was sure he'd reached the right address, he squeezed the truck in between a deserted warehouse and a high-class tavern. Their pickup was stashed in the tavern's basement, where many wealthy and shady individuals liked to discuss business in the morning and afternoon over drinks. Bribes to the police force made it safer for storage than the warehouse.

Laurence pulled forward a couple of feet, making sure the back of the truck was close to the basement door. He glanced at his pocket watch. He had thought it smart to wait exactly ten minutes before getting out to retrieve their shipment from the basement of the tavern. That way, if anyone was wise to their operation, it would give the perpetrator time to sneak a peek down the ally and expose themselves.

"Hey, Laurence ..." said Harvey in his vacant, dreamy way, "I'm not so sure I like what we're doing. Do you think it's safe?"

Laurence shook his head in mock disappointment. "Harvey, Harvey, Harvey," he said. "Of course it's safe. Those stony-eyed guys dressed in black are paying us a lot of money! AND," he added before Harvey could protest, "if we're being paid a lot of money, then it obviously means that this is an important job. And if the job is important, then that means _we_ are important. And they wouldn't let something dangerous happen to a couple of important fellas like us, now would they?"

Harvey scratched his head. "Well ... I guess that makes sense ..."

"Of _course_ it does. _I_ said it didn't I?" Laurence patted his friend on the shoulder. "All you need to know is whatever I tell you, and you'll be fine. Now let's get to work."

He glanced in both directions to make sure they were clear both in front of and behind the truck ... so he was surprised to say the least when something plopped down on _top_ of the truck. The tow deliverymen exchanged alarmed glances, then drew the guns they'd been given. Laurence fumbled with a box of bullets and dropped them all over the floor while Harvey stared at his revolver, wondering how to get the spinney thing to pop out.

Whoever had fallen onto their truck had evidently slid to the ground. They heard a scampering sound, a door being opened, more scampering as it faded away, followed by slower, heavier scampering coming back within earshot. They both jumped in their seats as a sudden weight was dropped into the back, jarring the vehicle on its suspension. They glanced at one another, nodded simultaneously, and scrambled out, tripping over their respective doorframes to tumble into the dust. Harvey's gun went off, and the sound of air emptying out of the front tire could be heard.

Reaching the back, they found the basement door to the tavern open, and coming up from it was a disheveled ragamuffin with a dirty trenchcoat and a red fez on his shaven head. He was hidden behind a dozen boxes (boxes that were supposed to be loaded by them) and was staggering under their weight. He dropped them into the back with the others.

The weight of the boxes jarred the truck's suspension again, causing Laurence and Harvey to wince. Harvey's gun went off again, and the shot was followed by the hiss of air escaping from one of the rear tires this time.

Queequeg dusted his hands off, glanced at the two armed deliverymen, then ran back down the stairs for another armful of crates.

"Who was that guy?" Harvey asked his companion. Laurence glared condescendingly at him. He brought his gun up and stood like a sentry before the doorway, ready to encounter the ruffian.

Harvey glanced from his more experience partner to his own gun and bent to examine it more closely. Suddenly, it went off a third time, causing Laurence to jerk his foot off the ground and start hopping about madly. Harvey watched his partner in crime bouncing around on one foot, and after a few seconds of thought, hid the gun behind his back.

No sooner had these events taken place than Queequeg came tramping back into the alley with another tower of boxes. Laurence turned on his one foot and pointed the gun at Queequeg as he set the crates down. "Alright mister ..." The weapon was unexpectedly knocked from his hand when the mute turned away from the truck. "Hey!" Laurence bent down for it, but as the mute charged back into the cellar for another trip, the fat man's foot was knocked out from under him in a burst of sand.

Laurence slowly rose to stand on wobbly legs, unable to tell if this whole thing was an accident caused by a moron, or a clever strategy being humiliatingly served to him by a tai-chi/judo expert.

"Um, do you need any help?" asked Harvey, still hiding his own gun out of sight.

"No, I don't need your help." Laurence fought his rising temper. "But as long as this crazy person is helping with our pickup, let's allow him to fill the truck, let him go on his merry little way, leave ourselves, and forget we ever saw him." He stuffed his gun back into his trousers. "And then shoot him."

Suddenly, there was a horrendous crash from the stairwell. Laurence hobbled over to the cellar door and peered down to see the bald man sitting at the bottom amidst scattered wooden crates. One of those crates was smashed open, its packing straw and contents lying all around the mute. Laurence grabbed his hair in two fists as the bald buffoon reached into the debris and picked up the item that had been contained in the crate.

It was a curious mechanism: cone-shaped, silver, and there were no moving pars on it. He shook it.

"Hey, don't do that! Stop!" Laurence thumped quickly down the stairs.

Queequeg looked up at him and grinned. He hopped to his feet, waved the item in front of him, and dodged around a cluster of wine barrels.

"Stop! Give that back, you!" Laurence grabbed for the silver cone, but the mute slipped away and kept it out of his reach while hopping up and down and whistling. He seemed to think it was a game.

"Hey, Laurence? What's going on?" Harvey hollered from outside. "Are you sure you don't need any help?"

"Yes, you nitwit, get down here," Laurence huffed as he made grabs for the cone. "This idiot just broke open one of the crates and he's fiddling around with a blasted BOMB right now!"

At this, the mute froze. Laurence also froze, reflecting on the information he'd let slip. The mute stared with realization at the cone he held, then slowly looked up and pointed an accusing finger at Laurence. Then, quick as a flash, he tucked the silver explosive device into a pocket of his trenchcoat and rocketed up the stairs that led to the tavern. Laurence gave chase with as much effectiveness as could be expected from a fat man with a hole in his foot.

* * *

The saloon above was dimly lit and full of quiet, serious conversation. It was overlain with soft jazz music that was loud enough to maintain privacy between tables, with help from the room's acoustics, while not making conversation difficult.

And then Queequeg burst in. He exploded from the door directly behind the bartender, who was setting a drink down in front of a man who wore glasses, had big bushy eyebrows, a big black mustache, and was smoking a big black cigar. Queequeg shoved the bartender aside and vaulted over the counter, grabbing the man's drink as he did so. He knocked it back and tossed the glass aside, whilst dodging around chairs, leaping over tables, and basically cutting a path of disruption from one end of the tevern to the other.

The man with the glasses and mustache turned around to watch the chaos. He glanced at his timepiece. "Well, the eleven-thirty is on time," he quipped. He turned back to the bartender. "It seems you have a serious rat problem in the basement." Realization caused his enormous eyebrows to shoot up. He yanked out his cigar and leaned forward. "No wait, it's not in the basement anymore, it's up here! But that's the problem, isn't it? Once you rat-proof your alcohol cases down there in the cellar, the rats have to come up here and steal from the customers instead!" He stood up. "It's an outrage! I, Lionel Q. Devereaux ... and by the way, that's 'Devereaux' with an 'ee-aye-yoo-ex' ... shall sue this place! That's right, I'll sue it into the dust!"

The bartender stared at him for a beat. "I'll get you another drink, sir."

The mustached man calmed down immediately. "That'd be swell, thanks."

Laurence, red-faced with effort and anger, burst through the door seconds later. His foot caught the top stair, causing him to topple forward and collide with the bartender just as he was bringing the mustached man a replacement drink. This time, it spilled right onto the man's suit.

Laurence pulled himself up by the edge of the counter and glared over it just in time to see his quarry barge out the front door and disappear.

The malcontent would-be customer dabbed at the single-malt scotch on his shirt. "Well, how d'ya like that? My wife already tells me I drink too much. All I've gotta do is come to i_this_/i bar every day and I'll be sober in no time!"

* * *

Moments later, Laurence and Harvey's truck was pulling out from the shadowy crevices of Pearl Town's back alleys and into its semi-busy municipal streets. Laurence fretted as he drove along, honking irritably at those who didn't get out of the way fast enough. Although the delivery truck wasn't moving very fast to begin with, what with having two flat tires.

"Ohhh, if that guy finds out we lost one, we'll be in big trouble," he worried. "We'll need a good cover story. Like ... there were only twenty-three boxes in the basement. It was the supplier's fault! Yeah ... he'll believe that. Whose gonna miss one silly old bomb anyway?"

Harvey said, "Well, if I were giving out Christmas gifts, I'd sure like to know exactly how many—"

"Shutup!"

As they drove past the Zanzibar Hotel, the trenchcoated figure that had been hanging from the truck's undercarriage suddenly dropped onto the ground and rolled out from underneath the vehicle. Queequeg stood up, then was jerked back into the dust as the truck's rear tire rolled over the tail of his coat.

Once it was past, he stood up again and brushed himself off.

He stood in the middle of the street for a moment, watching the hired pair of witless smugglers drive into the distance. Before they were out of sight, he stuck his tongue out an shook his fist at them. Then he hefted his dangerous, black-market package up to the sunlight so he could examine it. It didn't look like anything special, and it didn't look very dangerous either. But still, it was the catch of the day. He darted inside.

* * *

Nigel awoke to a pair of hands furiously clutching at his collar. They were alternating between shaking his head forward and backward for two seconds, then thrashing it back and forth for three seconds. Nigel tried to block it out and stay asleep by employing some of the Zen-like skills he'd had to learn in order to deal with his step-brother. Then he remembered that the last time he'd played possum, Queequeg had resorted to blasting him with a fire extinguisher and throwing him out the window to wake him up.

Besides, when the guy needed his brother awake, it was usually something urgent. He yawned and pushed Queequeg's hands away. "Alright, alright, I'm awake, man. What's going on?"

His mute sibling hurried across the room and back while Nigel tried groggily to rub the sleepiness from his features. When Nigel's hands came down from kneading the drowsiness from his eyes, he found himself staring face-to-nosecone with Queequeg's latest emergency.

"Whazzat?" Nigel blinked and peered at it. As the sleep cleared from his vision, the object came into focus. And as the object came into focus, his thought process sharpened. And as his thinking sharpened, his brain, desperate to bring a resolution to the situation at hand, sent a very important message to his mouth: "Holy googlenheimer's pocket watch, it's a bomb! Where'd you get that?"

Queequeg immediately launched into a pantomime of the day's events. Dropping to the floor, he hobbled and crawled around, twisting his features first into that of a half-crazed-by-greed neanderthal, and then into a sad, whimpering one.

"Um ... Jekyll and Hyde?" Nigel guessed.

A ring appeared in Queequegs hands, which he stroked adoringly and held close to his shirt in a protective manner.

"Oh, Golem. Wait, Smeagle!"

Queequeg snapped his fingers, urging him to repeat the name.

"Uh, Smeagle ... Smeagle. Smeagle. I see not what this has to do with anything. You'd better have a point."

Reaching forward while Nigel continued to repeat the name, Queequeg began contorting the flesh around Nigel's mouth, twisting it to manipulate the sound he was producing. "Smeagle. Searrgle. Shmurrgle. Shmurrgle. Shmuggle. Shmuggle ..." Nigel got it and pushed the hands away. "Oh, smuggle!"

Queequeg hopped up and down.

"Jeez, you got this from smugglers? How?"

Tucking the warhead under his arm, Queequeg mimed a wild trip and crashed to the floor, rolling down the length of the room as if he were tumbling down a flight of stairs. Once he hit the wall, he got back up and hurried over to Nigel.

"You ... fell down the stairs with that thing?" Nigel asked incredulously. "Is it still dangerous?"

Queequeg shrugged, extracted a hammer from his coat pocket, and started whacking the explosive device with it.

"Whoa, WHOA! Knock it off! Now listen, we're going to need to tell the authorities about this, understand? I want you to take that thing and hide it somewhere in case anybody comes looking for it. That means bad guys. You do know what to do if bad guys come, right?"

His brother nodded. He pulled a mousetrap from his pocket and snapped it.

"That's ... right, I guess."

Nigel strode to the phone and shook his head in despair as he hefted the receiver up to his ear. "Bomb smuggling. Good thing this isn't as crazy as that time you came to me with your conspiracy about a secret genetics project going on in the desert."

Queequeg spared him only a glance as he tore stuffing out of a pillow to make a hiding place for the bomb.


	4. No Heroes Here

Disclaimer: I don't own pokemon or the personalities of several featured characters.

* * *

**"At Least It Can't Get Any Worse"**

**Chapter Four: No Heroes Here

* * *

**

Sheriff Brady woke up from his mid-day nap to the most annoying sound that had ever invaded his office. He peeled his eyes open and glanced around. The fan was squeaking a little, though not loud enough to be the noise that had awoken him. His deputy was punching away at his typewriter, but he did that all day.

He made a second survey of the office before asking his deputy. "Charles?" Charles looked up from his typewriter. "D'you hear some kinda ringin' noise?"

His Deputy observed the room for a second, then his eyes settled on Brady's desk. "I think it's your telephone," he said.

Brady stared at it as if he'd just noticed it was there. It was indeed ringing. "The telephone?" he repeated incredulously. "Why the hell would anyone be callin' here?"

Charles shrugged. "Well, this _is_ the police station. Maybe somebody's reporting a crime?" This earned him an uncomprehending glare from his boss while the phone continued its incessant ringing. Brady turned from his deputy and stared at it. "Well ... what the hell do they want me to do about it?"

Charles glanced up and shrugged. "Pick it up and find out, I guess."

With no small amount of irritation, Brady dropped his feet from the edge of his desk where they'd been resting and finally raised his hand for the telephone. It was all the way at the other end of his desk.

He thought of asking Charles to get it, but decided that would just be shameless. Relinquishing his already-compromised position of comfort, he leaned forward, scrunching up the many layers of fat he'd built up over the years, and picked up the phone. The ringing finally stopped.

An audible sigh escaped his chest as he settled back into his normal, comfortable position, relishing in the silence. He raised the handset to his ear, and had to think for a moment about what to say.

"Pearl Town, Sheriff's Office. How can we help you?" His pronouncement was followed by silence.

_"It's ..."_ started a stern voice at the other end.

"Is there some sort of trouble?" Brady asked. "May I ask why you are calling?"

_"About ..."_ the voice continued.

"May I have you're name and address please? Perhaps—"

_"TIIIIIMMMMME!"_ the voice screamed at length.

* * *

Nigel huffed into the phone, listening to the silence on the end. Behind him, Queequeg pointedly stuck a finger in his ear and twisted it to get his hearing back, then went back to stitching up the bomb-concealing pillow. He was using a knitting needle and a roll of yarn. Nigel drummed his fingers, waiting for the sheriff to respond.

_"Hey, Nigel,"_ the receiver said with unpleasant familiarity.

"Hey, Harold," Nigel said with similar distaste.

_"Been a while since your last call, hasn't it?"_

"Yeah it's been a while," Nigel responded conversationally.

_"Ever since ..."_

"We started our private investigation business, yup."

_"How's that comin'?"_

"Well, we're not doing your job for you, if that's what you mean."

Nigel glanced into the living room where Queequeg was prying the lid off the enormous wooden crate he'd hauled in earlier. Inside was a wild mass of packing straw. He dug in and started throwing clumps of it aside, scattering it all over the room and looking for whatever treasures he might discover in the crate's shadowy depths.

"Look, we've just uncovered a smuggling operation a few blocks from here." He turned back around. "Queequeg knows the details, I think."

_"A smuggling op?"_ the sheriff asked.

"That's right. And you guys need to do something about it."

_"Well, since we haven't received word of any smuggling op and your brother only_ may _or may_ not _know these details, I'm afraid there's nothing we can do."_

"That's Okay. We have evidence of it right here."

_"Yes,"_ Sheriff Brady responded placidly, _"but it's not police evidence. This is not a police investigation."_

Nigel spoke slowly. "Then we will bring the evidence to you. Would that be acceptable?"

_"What exactly is the evidence?"_

"It's an artillery shell for a bomb. And it's right here in our apartment. And it almost exploded right in my face a minute ago."

Sheriff Brady fell silent. Finally, he suggested, _"So ... you're going on a hunch."_

Nigel let out a slow, exasperated sigh. "Just let me bring it to you, and you can decide for yourselves whether or not this is just a hunch."

_"I'm sorry, Mr. Quest, but we don't have the proper storage facilities necessary to contain the specific type of evidence that you_ claim ..." he stressed the word at length, _"... to have in your possession."_

"Okay, then we'll store it. We bring it over, you do your job, and Queequeg and I hold on to the evidence in the meantime."

_"I'm afraid it is against the law for civilian citizens to transport, or be in possession of, explosive materials without a license. You'll have to fill out an EMT8-O-XP form an get that notarized by the mayor and the city council. After you do that, it should take 6 to 8 weeks for processing."_

"But. We. Have. It. Right. NOW!"

_"Well, Mr. Quest, _we _have no proof that you have proof."_

"THEN LET ME BRING THE DAMN THI—" He was cut off when something smacked him in the back of the head, followed by a small flash of red light. Turning around, he saw Queequeg's upside-down feet sticking out of the crate with straw still erupting from it in clump-fulls. Apparently, he had found something amongst the packing material and tossed it without noticing. Nigel scanned the floor for the object as he spoke into the phone, calmer this time. "Then allow me to bring the item to the police station so that you can examine it yourselves and start an investigation, Sheriff. Such as is your job."

_"Our job is to _investigate _criminal activities. So unless you have proof that such activities are taking place—"_

"But we DO HAVE_— *Sigh*_ Y'know what?" Nigel said, finally deciding it wasn't possible to force this conversation any deeper into absurdity. He relinquished his search of the floor. "I think I do know what you're saying. What you're basically saying is that you can't investigate because you didn't uncover the operation yourselves, and WE can't bring the evidence to you for various ridiculously moronic reasons. Am I about right?"

He heard Brady open his mouth to say something over the phone, but cut him off immediately.

"Look, it would all be well an good if we just let you do your job, buuuut YOU NEVER LEAVE THE FREAKIN' STATION! THE ONLY TIME YOU USE THE PATROL CAR IS TO GO GET DOUGHNUTS! AND EVEN THEN HALF THE TIME YOU HAVE THEM DELIVERED! _AND THE DOUGHNUT SHOP IS ONLY HALF A BLOCK AWAY!_"

Finally, the Sheriff spoke again. _"...Your point?"_

"My point." Nigel stated, "is that you couldn't catch so much as a jaywalker in this town unless they jaywalked right through the front door of your station, tripped on their own two feet, tumbled into a jail cell, grabbed the door in attempt to regain balance, and accidentally pulled it shut." A defeated sigh escaped him. "After all, the only reason I called you up was to see if you were still crooked." He hung up.

* * *

Sheriff Brady stared at his receiver for a moment, then reached over to hang it up. The cradle was too far away, so instead he set the phone down and just yanked the cord.

Sitting back up, he glanced around the unchanged station. He saw that his deputy was still punching away at his typewriter obliviously.

"That that Quest fellow, was it?" Charles asked without looking up.

"Yeah ... Charles, what the hell do you type all day? You coulda written a novel on that thing by now."

Charles looked up happily. "Oh, I have! My publisher says I just need to fix up some historical details and I can get published by September!"

* * *

Hand resting on the receiver, Nigel grumbled to himself for a few seconds, then turned back to the living room. Queequeg was now entirely inside the crate, and had not yet stopped hurling massive amounts of straw from it. The stuff was all over the place. Nigel bent down and returned to his search for the object that had struck him during his call. He spotted it under the table where it had rolled after making contact with his noggin. It was about the size of a baseball with two hemispheres. One side was white, the other red, and there was a lense fixed into its equator.

"Hmmmm ... what have we here?" Cautiously, he crouched, picked up the ball, and pressed the lense in the front. The two halves of the ball separated and popped open with a clean snap. It was empty. Nigel snapped the ball shut and pocketed it, but just as he was turning to crawl out from under the table he came nose-to-nose with a small, furry, quadrupedal creature with a pair of mischievous eyes.

The two stared over their noses at one another for several hesitant seconds until the creature squeaked once and licked his nose. He jumped in surprise, bumping hid head. "Ouch! ... Well, this is unexpected," he said, holding his hand out for the Eevee to examine.

They were both distracted by a loud banging, crunching sound, followed by the smell of something burning. Nigel tossed the table aside as he stood up to behold their floor scattered with pieces of the crate and piles of straw laying everywhere. The straw was aflame, and since it was strewn all over the apartment, small fires were licking up everywhere.

Queequeg was chasing the culprit back and forth with a fire-extinguisher. It was an orange salamander-like critter with a flaming tail. But instead of trying to spray the extinguisher like he was supposed to, he was brandishing it like a club and trying to hit the flaming salamander (presumably to knock it out). As he ran across the room, another pokemon they had never seen before shot out from beneath the bed and darted in front of his feet. He tripped over its steel-armored hide and went sprawling.

"Queequeg, stop that!" Nigel slapped his forehead in frustration, considered pulling out his hair, then decided he liked his hair where it was, and dropped his arm. "Come on, make yourself useful an help me smother these fires before things get out of hand!"

* * *

Laurence and Harvey pulled their mail truck up next to a depot somewhere in Pearl Town's urban district. There was already someone waiting there for them, a man dressed in black with a thick, well-muscled body, dark features, and narrow eyes.

"There. Now all we have to do is wait until this guy checks out the cargo, and then we're off," Laurence said all-knowingly.

"Do you think he'll—"

"NO!" shouted Laurence, then cringed from his own outburst and said more quietly, "He's not going to waste time counting them. And even if he does, he's not going to make a big deal out of it if there's only one missing. So just ..."

He trailed off as Harvey looked past him and pointed. Laurence turned slowly to see their contact standing there, his already-grim face looking positively sinister.

"You didn't count the boxes back there, did you?" asked Harvey.

* * *

Nigel scooped up the last pokeball that was laying on the floor in the middle of the mess. A beam shot out and retrieved the Charmander. "At least this one's outta the way," he said, pocketing the pokeball. Now they could focus on cleanup without fear of igniting anything else. As the two of them hurried about the apartment extinguishing small fires in various locations, the Eevee scampered around their feet and pounced at them every now and then. The Aron was shuffling its minuscule bulk from place to place examining its new environment.

"What I'm wondering," said Nigel, "is why anyone would want to send us pokemon. They're uncommon out here." He finished batting out some flames on the edge of a coffee table and peered at the two remaining critters. They were sniffing and nipping at one another playfully, as if they knew each other. "Mayhap there was a mixup in the mail?"

At that moment Queequeg shoved a letter in his face. "Hm? Was this also in the crate?" He glanced up at Queequeg and took the letter. "...Your finger's on fire," he said as he calmly pried open the envelope. Queequeg gaped in alarm at his flaming index finger and desperately struggled to blow it out while Nigel unfolded the letter. "It's a note from Dad!" he exclaimed.

Queequeg finished blowing out his finger and jumped up and down in excitement.

"My dad, not yours. Your dad's dead, remember?"

Queequeg ceased jumping, nodded sadly, shrugged his shoulders, and continued jumping. Nigel focused on the letter. "By the way, you're sleeve's on fire, too, now."

He read the first few lines to himself, then started reading aloud. "'Dear Nigel,'" he said as Queequeg frantically batted out the flames on his arm, "'I'm sure you know how freakin' proud I am of you for taking up that position in Pearl Town, just to try and help people. You're the most wonderfully generous and talented son a father could ever ask for, and you're on your way to becoming a fine man. In light of this, I've arranged for you to take part in something unique and challenging that suits your amazing talents: a Pokemon Trainer. You should find three pokemon in the crate. No cash, that part's up to you. All three have high potential and are extremely close to me, so keep them safe and train them well. With perseverence, I'm sure they'll become stronger, and that you will set a high example for everyone who what the hell is this shit?"

He reached into his back pocket and withdrew the last letter his dad had sent him years ago when he'd moved here: "'Red haired kid. You got a job there, right? Send fifty bucks sometimes this week. And beer.'"

Stuffing the old letter away, he held the new one level with his face. "Somebody else sent this. We both know my dad. There is just no way in ..." He noticed that Queequeg was staring strangely at the piece of paper. "Hey. What's up?"

Keeping his eyes fixed on the letter and maintaining a completely stoic expression, Queequeg snatched a glass of water from a table behind him, splashed its contents all over Nigel and the letter, and replaced the empty glass exactly where it had been.

Nigel spewed some water from his mouth and sighed as his brother snatched the dripping letter away. "Warn me next time."

Queequeg paid no attention. He studied the wet letter closely, then held it out for Nigel to see. Glancing from his brother's guilt-free expression to the paper, Nigel was suddenly intrigued to see markings that hadn't been there before etched into its surface. They were very tiny, intricate scratches lined up in rows across the page. Apparently they could only be seen when the paper was damp.

"For some reason I feel the need to say 'jinkies'." He took the dripping letter and held it under the light to read it. But in doing so, some of the apartment came into his peripheral vision.

It was a mess. Pieces of the crate and its contents were still scattered about, small sections of wood and furniture were charred, cushions were shredded, chair and table legs were chewed upon, objects had been knocked over, and most of the damage had been done in the last few minutes while he and Queequeg were focused on the letter. Eevee and Aron were in the middle of it, chasing each others' tails in a continuous circle.

"You know what? This can wait." Nigel stuffed the wet message into his pocket. "I've got to get these guys calmed down or worn out. And I know the perfect place for them to burn off some energy." With two bright red flashes of light, he transferred the two frisky critters into their pokeballs and headed for the door. Queequeg stopped him there by shoving a list of Pearl Town laws in his face. He had circled the section prohibiting pokemon battles in the district.

"Yeah, I know they're illegal here, but hey ... who doesn't go through life without harmlessly breaking a couple half-brained laws?" Queequeg answered by grinning and tearing the bill in half. "Anyway, these three are hungry. They need food, as do I." He marched outside, calling back, "Oh, and get the place straightened up while I'm out, okay?"

In the doorway, Queequeg threw a salute and waved his brother off. Then he turned around and saw the horrendous condition of the apartment. He sighed, then reached around the door to flip the business sign around. Against all logic, the sign that had shortly before said "Do Not Disturb" now read, "Meeting in Progress." He flipped it several more times, cycling through "Help Wanted", "Shovels Wanted", "Eat At Joe's", "Paramount Picture Studios", and "Neighborhood Association of Potato-Carving Enthusiasts" until he finally found "Closed for Renovation". He shut the door and got to work.


	5. And Away We Go

Disclaimer: I don't own Pokemon or the personalities and appearances of several featured characters.

* * *

**"At Least It Can't Get Any Worse"**

**Chapter Five: And Away We Go**

Nigel knelt in the dust of a back ally where his new pokemon were gathered around him. "Okay ..." he said, "... think fast!" Like a casino employee dealing cards, he tossed an iron horseshoe and two different kinds of pokemon food into the open mouths of his three companions.

"All set?" he asked when they'd finished. Eevee responded with a positive chirp, but the other two just tilted their heads. "Okay then ..."

He stood up. At the end of the ally and across the street was a large warehouse. The door was hidden somewhere in a shadowy recess. "Let's get this show on the road."

* * *

From within the heavy steel-plated door, a rectangular slot opened up, revealing to the doorman the lean face of a young man with a pointed nose, a smallish mouth, nebulous blue eyes, and a shock of fire-orange hair waiting outside.

"Password?" said the man inside the building.

"Swordfish," said Nigel.

The slat closed on his face, and seconds later Nigel Quest was making his way through the hive of scum and villainy (or as he like to call them, rebels, rats, and miscreants) to reach the center of the building. Modified from a partially-emptied warehouse to suit its purpose, it was one of the largest gathering places in Pearl Town. Small tables were crammed into the corners of the enormous building where some of its occupants were engaged in card games, casual conversations, liquor indulgement, and quiet plotting. Further inward, people were either placing bets, watching those bets play out, paying up on lost bets, or getting in fights over bets that hadn't turned out the way they'd wanted.

Nigel politely elbowed through the innermost wave of spectators, eventually reaching the show floor. This was the spot were Pokemon battles, outlawed in Pearl Town years ago, took place regularly. Since the battles were held in one of the largest warehouses in the city, there was enough space for a full regulation-size field.

There was a lot of shouting and fist-waving happening around Nigel. Pushing two eager spectators aside, he reached the arena just in time to see a huge boulder come flying across the loose dirt floor straight toward a muscular, four-armed monster.

Nigel, who hadn't seen many pokemon battles in his youth, winced as the Machamp used all four of its fists to bash the Golem away from itself like a cannonball. The Golem ricocheted off the ceiling with a burst of sparks, twisting girders, and no small amount of dust, then came back down like a comet. It's return to Earth punched out a crater that sent cracks racing away from its edges. The audience voraciously expressed their views on the battle's conclusion with mixed hollers of glee and aggravation.

Nigel glanced down at the three small pokeballs strapped to his belt. "Maybe I'd better enter a lightweight match."

* * *

A mail truck jerked to a stop in front of the Pearl Town Police Department. Sheriff Brady didn't rouse from his mid-afternoon nap until his front door slammed open, revealing a dark figure with broad shoulders. The figure came inside and made straight for Brady's desk. He proceeded calmly and politely, but there was a noticeable undercurrent of menace in his gait.

He stopped at the Sheriff's desk and placed his hands on it as if it were his own. A sudden chill in the air woke the sheriff. When he looked up, he was awoken further by the presence of a tall scary guy talking into his face.

"I placed a call to you a few minutes earlier, Sheriff, but it seems your telephone is disconnected. Luckily, your department was only a short distance away, so I didn't have to travel _too_ far." Brady decided that the stranger's emphasis on the word "too" meant that he would rather not have had to travel at all.

"Um ... yeah," was all Brady could think of saying. For a second he was arrested for words, but as he got a clear look at the operative's cold, predatory eyes, he quickened his tongue. "We ... had some trouble with the phone earlier ..."

"What trouble?" the operative asked impatiently.

"It was ah ... ringing trouble."

The operative glowered. "That is what telephones are supposed to do," he said condescendingly. "When they don't ring for the person on one end, the appointed sheriff on the other end doesn't receive important information from his ... superiors."

"I see," Sheriff Brady said at length. If this man was able to call himself his superior, then there was only one organization he could be with, and only one person he could be. "What information do you need, Mr. Zahn?"

Mr. Zahn's voice was made of ice. "Who called you?"

* * *

Nigel stood with his feet planted at one end of the arena, tossing a pokeball into the air and catching it. Across the dusty arena floor, his opponent stood motionless, his face concealed by ten-inch-long dreadlocks covering his head like a shaggy bucket.

"Ready!" shouted the announcer. "Fight!"

In this style of pokemon battling, both trainers had to select one pokemon each without knowing what the other was going to pick. It was sort of a gamble.

Two flashes of light lit up the arena, leaving his Charmander, Ran, standing before a rock-solid Geodude, ready to battle his fiery heart out.

"Alright, Ran, use ..." Nigel hesitated in mid-sentence, his hand going to his chin. "Wait ... don't fire pokemon have a major disadvantage against ..."

Before he'd finished his thought, a beat-up Charmander landed in the dust at his feet.

"Oh. Yeah, they do."

"Next pokemon!" the announcer bellowed.

Pushing aside his feelings of self-recrimination, Nigel recalled the fire-lizard and tossed his next pokeball, hoping luck would be on his side this time. He brightened up when Shield, his Aron, materialized opposite a Zubat. "Well ... this ought to be a tad easier."

He was right. None of the Zubat's flying or poisoning attacks could succeed in penetrating Shield's metal hide, and all of his attacks proved enormously effective on the fluttering bat creature's flimsy body. In half the time it had taken Geodude to beat up Ran, Zubat lay twitching on the ground while Shield hunkered down and relaxed.

The announcer issued the third and final switch order, and when the dust cleared, Nigel's yet-unnamed Eevee was already charging across the arena toward his opponent: a Voltorb that was charging with equal velocity.

"Eevee, ta—." Ignoring Nigel's command, Eevee leaped into the air, landing atop the speeding bomb-ball. Eevee balanced like a trained circus performer as the slightly freaked-out Voltorb went racing around in circles. He leaped off, allowing the Voltorb to smash itself into the wall bordering the arena floor.

"Thundershock!"

A bolt of electricity shot from the dust the Voltorb had disappeared into, stabbing into Eevee and enveloping him. Contradictory to what Nigel expected to see, his Eevee seemed to be ... enjoying the electric shock. His teeth were bared and he was quivering with excitement. Nigel didn't know that much about Eevees, or about pokemon in general, but that didn't seem normal.

He thought to call out an attack, but something told him to wait a moment longer.

As soon as the Thundershock ended, he yelled, "Eevee, quick attack!" The four-legged furball charged in, smashing the Voltorb up high into the air, almost touching the ceiling.

Voltorb's trajectory drew everyone's eyes up to the damage in the girders that had been caused earlier by the Machamp-versus-Golem fight. The announcer and organizers of the underground competitions caught their breaths, expecting to see further damage done to their place of business. To their relief, the Voltorb reached its zenith started back down.

The dreadlocked trainer watched as his Voltorb descend, carefully judging when it would hit the ground and have Eevee in range. "Self Desruct!"

Nigel conjured a counter-move just as quickly. "Send it back up!" he shouted. With a flying headbutt, Eevee reversed the Voltorb's trajectory, sending its opponent back up toward the rafters just as the bomb-ball's energy buildup reached critical mass and cut loose with a deafening boom.

For miles across Pearl Town, people heard a distant rumble and saw a burst of gray smoke rise briefly from the warehouse district.

Nigel stood at his end of the arena in mild shock, staring up at the hole in the ceiling where hot sunlight was now glaring in. From various locations all around the building, the people of interest who had previously been worried about damage to their roof now glowered at the trainer responsible.

Nigel glanced around, noticing these people, then pointed across the arena at his opponent. "He did it."

* * *

Zahn stood at the top of the stairs on the second floor of Hotel Zanzibar. He had placed a call to some lesser operatives nearby, who were now outside with a second truck. The entire group had staked out across the street until the orange-haired guy (apparently a pokemon trainer) had returned. Now was the time to move.

Nigel and Queequeg's room was just a few doors ahead. He casually drew his pistol and proceeded down the hallway. The floorboards that normally creaked for anyone who crossed them made no complaint under his feet. From within the apartment, a conversation could easily be heard through its thin wall.

"Oh man, it was awesome! Granted, it didn't start that way. Ran put up a good fight, but you can't exactly burn a rock. No, seriously, you can't. Anyway, round two was more in my favor. I don't think Shield even felt a single blow from that Zubat! _Stop_ that. Then in round three something just clicked, and it was like we were in sync! It's just too bad I had to give up what little prize money I won off myself to fix the hole in the roof. I mean, it's not like it ever rains here anyway. Hey, I said NO!"

Quietly approaching the apartment door, Zahn clicked off the safety on his pistol, delivered a fierce kick to the door, and calmly stepped in. But once inside, the scene before him made him hesitate. The orange-haired trainer was staring oddly at his bald roommate, who was holding in his outstretched hand a rock from which finger-like flames were flickering.

He stared at them, and they both turned to stare at the sudden intruder who'd just kicked their door in.

"Hello ... can we help you?" said the orange-haired trainer.

The bald mute had a different reaction: his face contorted in pain from the rock he'd somehow set on fire. He threw it up in the air, and by some twist of fate it went down the front of Zahn's jacket. The assassin's hand dove inside, frantically darting about for the hot object while keeping his gun aimed in the general direction of his query.

While watching the intruder dance about, Nigel finally noticed the gun he was struggling to keep pointed at them.

"Holycrap, man! I don't think this guy's selling toasters ... well, unless 'toasters' is now a euphemism for 'firearms'." Queequeg ceased blowing on his hand long enough to notice Nigel was right. "Initiate escape plan Victor-Charlie!" With a nod, Queequeg grabbed Nigel by the scruff of his jacked and charged toward the window, lifting him so as to smash him through the bars (which were really just made of styrofoam). There was a yell followed by a crash, and on his way to the ground, Nigel cried out, "No, dammit, I said _Victor_-Charlie, not Vector-Charliiiieeeeee ..." _*thump*_

Finding the hot rock and tossing it aside before he burned his fingers, Zahn took aim and shot at the mute as he followed his unfortunate brother out the window. He ceased fire, however, when a trio of pokemon scampered across the apartment and, after the Aron smashed through the wall to make a hole for the Charmander and the Eevee, dove after the two idiots. There was something familiar about those pokemon ...

* * *

On the ground, Nigel sat up and rubbed his aching head. "First rule of living in Pearl Town, Queequeg: learn your escape plans. It's less painful for me." He finished saying this just before Shield smashed into the dust like a meteor directly between his legs. "That was waaay too close for—" Ran landed on his head, slamming it into the dust. A pained groan issued from beneath the fire-lizard, who scrambled off just in time for Eevee to land there instead.

"Urrrrrgh ... when did you all learn body slam?"

Eevee jumped free of his trainer's face just as Queequeg grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him to his feet. "Oh, right there's someone tryin' t'kill ush," he slurred. He shook it off. "We'd better start running now, Quee ..." His words trailed away when he looked around and saw angry-looking uniformed thugs on all sides of them ... except for the side where there was an open rear door of a big truck. Grinning nervously at the group, he pointed into the truck. "I guess you guys want us to run _that_ way."

"Orders have changed," said a cold voice from above. Nigel and Queequeg looked up to see the assassin glaring down at them from the busted window. "We're taking these two and their pokemon back to base."


End file.
